


Care & Feeding

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Modification, Breast Sucking, Canon Asexual Character, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Bliss, Gaussian Distributions, Gray Ace Jon Sims, Healthy Weight Gain, Hucow, Lactation Kink, M/M, Milking, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Martin snorts. “If it doesn’t have a pound sign in front of it, Elias doesn’t care. But what I meant was, are you sureyoushould still be...you know. Drinking it?”“I’ve...considered it, of course,” Jon says slowly. “But overall, it seems statistically unlikely for me to develop symptoms. With how long and how frequently I’ve been, ah, exposed, if I was going to be affected it would have happened by now. I think it’s...low risk.”Low risk, and...Jon doesn’t want to stop drinking Martin's milk.*Jon experiences side effects.(Side story to Madame la Problématique's "ear tags")
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard (mentioned), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 39
Kudos: 207





	Care & Feeding

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [ear tags](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983091) by [Madame la Problématique (callmearcturus)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/Madame%20la%20Probl%C3%A9matique). 
  * Inspired by [not just bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264384) by [Bit_Not_Good](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bit_Not_Good/pseuds/Bit_Not_Good). 



> This probably won't make much sense without reading "ear tags" - and I highly recommend you do - but the short version is: mid S1 timeline, Martin gets turned into a human cow ("hucow") by Jared Hopworth, and he's far from the only one. Elias sees an opportunity, and directs the Institute's resources to investigate the phenomenon as it continues to spread, first via ear tags, and later through the milk itself.
> 
> The working title of this was "Jon Joins the Itty Bitty Titty Committee" so please treat this work with all the solemnity it deserves. Do heed the tags, however!
> 
> Huge thanks to the discord crew who have been SO MUCH FUN to jam this AU with, to Arc for the fantastic world building and plotting of "ear tags", and to Bit_Not_Good for originating all this with the delicious "Cattle" series.

Thursday morning, Jon logs in to find that the weekly report out from the kine forum is waiting in his inbox. Despite his repeat requests to IT, the reports are still an unorganized data dump, and it takes him the morning just to sort it, adding data points to the appropriate spreadsheets, and cataloguing the more qualitative information for later review. 

They’ve only been at this a couple of months, but already the volumes of data are impressive. Having signed off on the fact that their information will be used—anonymously—to the benefit of their fellows, most of the kine are remarkably open about their experiences. They cheerfully log milk volumes, and describe physical changes, aches and pains, emotional states. Jon hasn’t had time yet to spend on any kind of serious analysis, but with two months worth of data, he thinks it’s time to take a proper look. 

He’s hardly started scrolling through the first sheet when someone taps on his door. Jon glances at his computer clock. It’s two o’clock; he’s missed lunch. Which is odd, because Martin usually fetches him. 

“Come in?” he calls, and Sasha’s face appears around the door frame.

“There’s another one in,” she tells him. “Untagged. Looks like Martin’s about finished with him.” 

That explains it, then. Jon saves his work and emerges to see Martin guiding a distraught man towards the stairs. He catches Jon’s eye as he passes and gives a worried smile, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. Sasha heads into the vacated break room, leaving Jon with Tim, who is pointedly ignoring them all with his eyes glued to his phone. A few moments later, Sasha returns with a tape recorder and hands it to Jon.

“All yours.”

The recording opens with Martin’s voice:

“Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant, recording statement of Krzysztof Szeliga, regarding some recent changes.”

The statement itself is much like the handful of others they’ve heard from untagged individuals. Lacking the direct terrors of assault or abduction, instead focused on the slow, creeping horror of _change._ Once he’s finished, Martin asks gently about farmers’ markets, whether Mr. Szeliga’s been buying his milk locally. He has been, of course, for the past several months. Jon makes a note to talk to Elias, preparing himself for yet another argument about selling the stuff. At least, Jon considers them arguments, though Elias treats them more like academic discussions, as if they weren't talking about selling supernatural body modification in the dairy aisle at Tesco.

“Thank you, Krzysztof,” Martin signs off at the end, his tone sympathetic. “I know this hasn’t been easy. Let’s go upstairs to the canteen, get a cup of tea, and we can talk about where to go from here.”

They agreed early on that Martin was the best person to work directly with affected people. For those scared and humiliated by the betrayal of their own bodies, talking with someone who’s been through the same thing is a reassurance, and Martin’s even, kind demeanor puts people at ease. Jon’s just as happy not to be taking the statements himself. He knows he isn’t a naturally calming presence, and the statements he’s recorded directly have always taken an emotional toll; he still has lingering nightmares about a couple of them. 

The rest of the day flies by in a flurry of paperwork and research, and by the time Jon looks at the clock again it’s nearly six. Time to head home, he supposes, and then realizes he hasn’t seen Martin all day other than that brief moment earlier. He sticks his head out into the office, and when he doesn’t see Martin, texts him. 

_Getting ready to leave. Where are you?_

He gets the response a minute or so later:

_at the boarding house w elias, remember? have that call w the us tonight._

Jon does remember, then. Martin and Elias have a video conference with some of the affected individuals who have started to emerge in America; Jared and Sebastian are expanding their activities, apparently. They’re going to show off the Institute’s facilities for housing and acclimating the kine, and invite them to come and visit in person. Jon’s phone pings again:

_go to mine if u like, u have keys. i’ll be late._

Jon scowls. The thought of Martin staying late at the facility, likely needing to be milked with only Elias on hand, sends an unhappy pang through him. He knows it’s foolish; the milking is a necessity. Yes, there’s an intimacy to it that can easily escalate, but it’s none of Jon’s business if Martin chooses to share that intimacy with Elias or anyone else. Jon doesn’t _own_ him, he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions. And if Elias was taking advantage, Martin would have told him; at least, Jon _hopes_ he would.

He considers whether he should just go to his own flat. He has more reference materials there, he could probably get more work done, and he’s fairly sure there’s leftover pad thai in the fridge. Except he knows he’d only sit and worry until he heard from Martin that he was home. He might as well do that at Martin’s, and actually see him for his worries. 

On his way, he picks up the ingredients for a chicken stew. Jon’s started cooking regularly for the first time in years, since he and Martin eat together most evenings. The blissful sounds Martin makes over a homemade lasagne or panang curry have made it more than worthwhile to dust off his culinary skills. He’s been working fewer late nights as well, so he can see Martin home safely, whether to his own flat or Jon's He’s even been sleeping better; his persistent nightmares have, recently, been less frequent and less vivid. He’s not sure if that’s down to sharing a bed with another person, or if it’s true what they say about warm milk being a soporific. In any case, his efforts to take care of Martin have improved his own well being considerably. 

Jon’s life is better than it has been in years, and he’s not insensitive enough to ever say it, but in an odd way it’s thanks to Jared Hopworth. 

Martin’s flat is cold when he gets in—the window’s been open all day—so Jon busies himself cooking to warm the place up. When it’s done, the stew smells delicious, and Jon leaves it simmering on the hob. He’s not hungry yet; he’ll probably just wait for Martin to get back. He glances at his phone: quarter past eight. Jon settles down on the sofa with some of the forum print-outs and starts reading. 

It’s well after ten before he hears a key turning in the lock. Martin comes in, shrugging off his coat: caramel-colored and perfectly tailored, one of Elias’ gifts. When he sees Jon, a smile lights up his face. 

“Hi,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here—you never replied to my text.”

“Oh,” says Jon, realizing he hadn’t. “Sorry.” 

“‘salright, I’m glad you're here.” Martin sniffs the air. “That smells delicious—did you eat?”

“Not yet,” Jon admits, and Martin gives him a hard look.

“Today?” 

“Ahh…”

“Honestly, Jon,” Martin scolds, though his tone lacks heat. “You’d never feed yourself if I wasn’t around to remind you.” 

“Lucky for me you are, then,” says Jon in his best flirting tone; he’s rewarded with a pleased laugh. “Are you hungry?”

“I had a bite with Elias before we went to the boarding house, but I could eat.” Jon pushes down the reflexive stab of jealousy, and goes to fetch bowls and cutlery. He spoons out portions of the thick stew, and pours them each a glass of the wine left over from his cooking. He is, now that he thinks about it, absolutely famished. He brings the bowls over to the coffee table, and Martin fetches the wine, and they eat side by side on the sofa, while Martin tells Jon about his conference call.

“They seemed really impressed,” he says eagerly. “I think a lot of them will come to visit—especially now we’ve got the travel stipends sorted.”

“That’s great,” says Jon. “Elias was pleased, I suppose?”

“Oh you know Elias.” Martin rolls his eyes. “All he could talk about was whether there were enough of them localized in any one area to start production in the States.” 

“And he helped take care of your milking?” Martin nods, and Jon isn’t imagining the faint color rising in his cheeks. 

“Honestly that’s partly why I’m late, it always seems to take forever with Elias. Sometimes I think he drags it out just to annoy me.” 

Jon makes a non-committal noise and takes a sip of his wine. He turns when Martin’s hand lands on his wrist, taking hold of it carefully; Martin gives him a smile that’s almost coy.

“I always have some for you, Jon, you know that. If you want it tonight?” 

Jon feels his face go hot and he swallows hard. He’s never had much appetite for sex, but at Martin’s words a rush of heat goes through him. Nestling against the soft swell of Martin’s teats, the sweet milk washing over his tongue as he sucks, Martin’s needy moos rumbling through his chest, is at once comforting and achingly erotic. Jon isn’t inclined to examine his own kinks too closely, but he finds himself aroused and wanting around Martin in a way he’s never experienced. 

“That sounds...good,” he manages to say. Martin’s fingers tighten on his wrist for a moment before releasing. 

“Let me finish this wine and we can get ready for bed, then.” He gives a sudden little frown. “Did you, uh, listen to the statement from today?”

“I did. That’s almost half a dozen cases now—we need to have another word with Elias about the wisdom of his plan.”

Martin snorts. “If it doesn’t have a pound sign in front of it, Elias doesn’t care. But what I meant was, are you sure _you_ should still be...you know. Drinking it?” 

“I’ve...considered it, of course,” Jon says slowly. “But overall, it seems statistically unlikely for me to develop symptoms. With how long and how frequently I’ve been, ah, exposed, if I was going to be affected it would have happened by now. I think it’s...low risk.” 

Low risk, and...Jon doesn’t want to stop drinking Martin's milk. He doesn’t want to relinquish the tender intimacy of these moments for the impersonal plastic of the milking machine; he doesn’t want Martin to think that Jon would ever reject any part of him, for any reason; and—most of all—he doesn’t want to give up how _good_ it feels. There are solid logical justifications Jon can make, but in the end justifications are all they are. He is aware of this, and he doesn’t care. 

“If you’re sure,” says Martin, still looking a little dubious. “But if you ever change your mind, you know I won’t be...offended, or anything, right?” 

“Of course,” Jon says. “Thank you, Martin. And, uh, same for you. If you ever change your mind.”

“Oh!” says Martin, his blush darkening. “No, I like it, a lot. It feels like—like I’m getting to take care of you a little, for a change?” 

Martin gets to his feet, and Jon’s eye is drawn by the appealing sway of his breasts beneath the cream-colored shirt, swelling out over the supporting bustier. Elias has gifted Martin a whole wardrobe full of suits, perfectly tailored to be both professional and attractive, and seeing him in them sends Jon’s head spinning between jealousy and desire. He follows Martin into the bedroom, and grasps his arm before he can undo the lacing along his side. 

“Wait,” he says, and brings his hands up to the front of Martin’s shirt, cupping handfuls of his breasts and squeezing gently. Martin huffs a soft breath, and Jon feels nipples stiffening against his palms. He hefts their weight in his hands for a moment, then unbuttons the front of Martin’s shirt down as far as the line of the bustier. Martin’s teats spill out, too ample for Jon’s hands to contain, rosy nipples a contrast against the creamy flesh. Jon lets his thumbs drag roughly over them, and Martin makes a small sound. 

“Gentle—they’re tender,” he murmurs, and Jon recalls he’s already been milked, hooked to the machine and pumped of all he could give, insensate with pleasure under Elias’ hands. Jealousy flares once again, and with it, the need to give Martin something Elias cannot. To take care of him better than Elias can. He steers Martin backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he sits. Then Jon straddles his lap and presses him back against the mattress, rolls his hips against Martin to make his interest known, and feels the answering hardness of Martin’s cock. 

“Ah, Jon, I should really take my clothes off first, these trousers are dry clean only.” 

“I’m sure Elias will buy you a new pair if we ruin them,” Jon says, and bends to kiss him, bracing his hands against the mattress. Martin’s mouth opens easily beneath his, Martin’s hands sliding onto his hips and then his arse as they kiss, slow and soft. When they break apart Martin’s hair is tousled, his lips red and wet, and Jon’s willing to bet he looks equally debauched. They’re both still fully dressed but for Martin’s bare breasts, on display like an art exhibit, and there is something utterly intoxicating about that. Jon shuffles down a little and dips his head so he can draw a nipple into his mouth. 

He mouths at it, swiping his tongue around the stiff peak, his lips finding the edges of the areola to form a gentle seal. Then he moves his hands to the teat, letting his weight rest on Martin’s body, and begins to suck in earnest as he massages the flesh. For a few moments he’s suckling dry, and then at last creamy sweetness floods his mouth and he hears himself groan. Martin’s arms fold around him, and for a while that’s all there is: the warm comfort of the milk settling in his belly, the yielding welcome of Martin’s body, the rise and fall of his rib cage beneath Jon as rough sounds of pleasure rumble through him, moans melting into moos. 

_"Mmmmmhhmm...mmmmmuuhhhhh…”_ Martin lows, and Jon feels light headed. 

He doesn’t stay there too long, much as he might want to. They’re both still fully dressed, and that won’t do at all. Jon sits up and observes with some pride the effect he’s had. Martin is flushed and glassy eyed, lips parted, his body relaxed and pliant against the mattress. He blinks slowly as he focuses on Jon, not quite lost to the haze of arousal. 

“Mmm...Jon…” he breathes. 

“What do you want, Martin?” He massages Martin’s teats with his hands, and Martin’s eyes close for a moment. He sighs, and his lids blink lazily open again. 

“Want you in me...please…” 

“Of course,” Jon promises, hearing his own voice rough with desire. He helps Martin to sit up, noticing with a twinge of guilt that his trousers are soaked through in the seat; he resolves to take them to the dry cleaners’ himself. Martin moves slowly to undress, his movements uncoordinated. Jon strips his own clothes quickly, and then helps Martin with the rest of his, letting his hands linger on each inch of velvety skin revealed. 

“Come here,” says Jon, and kneels back on the mattress, patting his thighs. Martin turns away from him and settles into Jon’s lap, Jon’s cock nudging up between the lush globes of his arse. “You’re so lovely and wet,” Jon praises as he slips easily inside, Martin’s body slick and eager to accept him. 

“Mmm…’s because I want you so much,” Martin tells him, and grinds down on his cock. 

Jon presses his face into Martin’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, impossible to describe as anything but _Martin._ He’s overwhelmed as Martin begins to ride him in a slow, inexorable rhythm, the wet heat of him engulfing Jon’s cock, the warmth of his skin against Jon’s body from cheek to thighs. Jon slides both arms around Martin; he grasps Martin’s rigid cock, stroking it firmly, and lifts his other hand to Martin’s lips. Martin draws three fingers into his mouth, as far as he can, and sucks on them hungrily, long, drawn out moos rumbling through his body where it’s pressed to Jon’s chest. 

“Martin,” Jon gasps, “Martin…” and presses his nose into Martin’s throat, mouthing at the skin while arousal washes over him like a tide, rising and rising until his hips buck helplessly and he’s coming, whimpering Martin’s name against his pulse point. A few moments later he feels Martin’s body clenching tight on his spent cock, and Martin moans around Jon’s fingers, his cock spilling over Jon’s hand. 

They stay entwined for long moments, until Jon realizes that his legs are starting to fall asleep. He shifts a little and Martin gets the message, lifting off him with a satisfied groan and stretching out on the bed. He looks sleepy and sated, a little unfocused, but he smiles up at Jon as he leans over him. 

“That was nice.”

“You’re nice,” Jon tells him, flushed with contentment. “Very nice, in fact.” He gives one of Martin’s breasts a little squeeze, and Martin snorts a laugh. “It’s a shame I only have two hands.”

“Mmm...maybe I should bring home one of those gags from the milking room. You wouldn’t turn me in for borrowing office supplies, would you?”

_“Stealing_ office supplies, you mean?” Jon raises an eyebrow, schooling his face into a stern expression. “That’s highly unethical, Mister Blackwood. I’d have to discipline you severely.” 

“Oh in that case I’m definitely taking one.” Martin tugs on his wrist and Jon lets himself be pulled down and kissed thoroughly. He considers that he could just pull the duvet over them both and fall asleep here, but his skin feels uncomfortably tacky with sweat and other fluids. He sits up, dropping a kiss on Martin’s forehead. 

“I need a shower,” he says, getting to his feet and stretching. He looks down in time to catch Martin’s eyes roaming over him, a satisfied smile on his face. “What?” 

“I was just noticing, you’ve put on a little weight.”

“Have I?” Jon frowns, looking down at himself. Martin laughs. 

“Don’t worry, it looks good on you. Healthy.”

Jon examines himself in the bathroom mirror while the shower heats up. Martin’s right, he looks a little more sleek around the middle, his ribs well padded and his chest softer. It makes sense; Elias is always enthusing about the nutritional richness of the milk, and Jon’s been supplementing his diet with plenty of it—not to mention the general improvements to his eating habits. It’s only natural he’s added a few pounds. He’s never been particularly concerned with his own appearance, not enough to actively change it, but he thinks he likes this. 

_Healthy,_ he thinks as he steps under the spray. Yes, that’s a word for how Jon feels. _Happy_ is another. Martin seems happy too—happier than Jon ever saw him before all this. And while that’s mostly down to satisfaction in his role, in being able to guide and support the other kine, Jon likes to think that some of it is also due to the way things are between them. 

He hopes so, at least, because more and more, Martin’s happiness has become vital to his own. 

Over the following weeks, Jon is more cognizant of his body than usual. He doesn’t generally pay it much mind, other than taking care of its immediate demands—water, food, hygiene, sleep. The fact that sex has made its way onto that list over the past year is already an adjustment, and since Martin drew his attention to it, he’s become oddly... _aware_ of his own physicality. 

His clothes feel different on him; not restrictive, just a touch more snug than they were before. His shirts contour his body more closely, and Martin notes admiringly that his rear is filling out his trousers more. 

“Not that it didn’t before,” he hastens to add, as if Jon might be insulted at the implication he has— _had_ —a flat arse. “It’s just a bit...you know. _More.”_

Day to day, Jon is engrossed in analyzing the data from the kine forums. It’s fascinating reading, and while a number of broad trends are visible, what’s most interesting is the _uniqueness_ of each person’s experience. Regardless of whether they were tagged, or altered directly by Jared, each individual has had their own distinct trajectory of change and adjustment. 

“Adekoya called it a template,” he explains to Martin over dinner one evening. “But really it’s more like a—a blueprint. The instructions are the same, but the way each person’s body processes them is unique.” 

They’re in a little Italian restaurant not far from the Institute; Martin’s idea, and Jon was delighted at the opportunity to treat him. Martin’s grown more comfortable with letting himself be seen as he is, in the close cut shirts and bespoke suits Elias keeps gifting him, and it makes Jon happy to see him so confident in his skin. The room glows warmly with candlelight, and the table is small enough that they can lean close and talk. Martin is smiling at him in that way he does, that says Jon is rambling a little, but that he finds it charming. 

“Like genetics, then?” Martin says, and Jon nods excitedly.

“Yes, exactly!” he says. “The genome is the same, but how the phenotype expresses itself depends on environmental factors as much as genetic. That’s the perfect way to describe it!” 

“Glad I could help.” Martin looks pleased and Jon feels a peculiar swell of pride, that this clever man is _his._ Or at least, chooses Jon to spend his time with. 

“Of course there are always physical changes,” Jon continues. “And the drive to be milked is always present, along with the, uh...reward feedback loop. But the intensity and scope of change varies along a scale—it’s too early to tell for sure, but it _seems_ to be a Gaussian distribution.”

“Oh, that’s...interesting?” Martin looks mildly bemused. 

“It really is! And what’s more interesting is that each of the metrics we’re looking at—milk volume, uh, teat size, weight change, skin texture—all seem to be broadly independent of each other. Of course that’s just the quantitative data, there’s a whole array of qualitative information that I’ve barely _started_ looking at yet. Did you know that some people have started making their own cheese?”

“And yogurt, _and_ sour cream, and I _think_ there are even butter-making instructions floating around the forum. I’ve been considering ice cream, myself.” 

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” Jon muses. “You don’t actually need an ice cream machine, only salt to lower the freezing point, and egg yolks to emulsify it so it coalesces.”

“I know about that,” Martin laughs. “Someone told me all about it on my birthday last year.” 

“Who—?” Jon starts to ask and then colors as he recalls. “Ah, right. I may have been a bit...nervous, that day. I didn’t know any of you very well.”

“It was cute,” Martin assures him. He lays his hand over Jon’s. “It still is.” 

Martin is golden in the candlelight, happy and confident and looking at Jon with an affection he can scarcely believe. Some fierce, bright emotion surges through Jon, filling his chest to bursting. 

Later, Martin pins Jon down in bed with his weight over Jon’s hips, slides his palms slowly over Jon’s shoulders and chest and Jon gasps as a thumb grazes his nipple. Martin quirks a pleased eyebrow at the response, and does it again, and then pinches both Jon’s nipples between thumb and forefinger while he squirms and pants. 

“I didn’t know you had such sensitive nipples,” he admires.

“Ahh...neither did I,” Jon admits, and a fleeting thought sparks in the back of his head, only to be washed away as Martin bends over him, his teats hanging like ripe fruit to Jon’s lips. Jon sucks gratefully, eagerly, and the warm milk flows as Martin sinks down onto his cock, rocking gently while sweet, wanting moos spill from his throat. 

The thought returns later, in front of the bathroom mirror as Jon contemplates the softness of his chest, his nipples stirred stiff by the cold air. It’s ridiculous, of course; he’s being paranoid. Yes, weight gain and nipple sensitivity are two of the symptoms reported by the kine, but correlation and causation are not the same thing. He’s put on weight because he’s been taking in more calories. And as for his increased sensitivity, well, Jon’s never before had this much sex, this regularly. The cocktail of hormones released by the brain in response to sexual activity is powerful—who’s to say how his body might respond? 

Besides, judging from the—admittedly small—sample set they have, it seems that the milk-based transmission takes under two months to show symptoms. If Jon _had_ been affected, it would have happened long before now. He scolds himself for worrying about nothing, like he always does, taking anything positive that happens to him and fretting at it until it turns sour. He did it with Georgie, all those years ago, and he’s not going to let himself do it with Martin, not when things are so good.

There’s hardly time to worry about that sort of thing, anyway, he’s so busy. Between cataloguing the statements, analyzing the data pouring in, and tracking Hopworth’s activities, there’s no time for anything else. Occasionally, Jon casts a wistful glance at the jumbled boxes of files from Gertrude’s time, remembering all the plans he’d had for them. Back during his brief tenure as Head Archivist, he thinks wryly, before he became an eldritch epidemiologist. Martin’s busy too, working with Elias a lot, and they scarcely see each other during the day. Jon knows he’s stewing a bit in petty jealousy; he’d never let on to Elias, though and if there seems an extra soupçon of smugness in the man’s smile these days, Jon’s almost sure he’s imagining it. 

At least they still have the evenings, and nights when Jon stays up late working, it’s a balm to get into a bed already warmed by Martin’s body, crawl into his arms and suck slow and languid on a nipple until they fall asleep tangled together. 

After one such late night, he’s woken by Martin’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him carefully:

“Jon, wake up.”

“Wha’?” he mumbles. He didn’t sleep well; there was an odd tenderness in his chest all day yesterday, and it was even worse when he went to bed, to the point that he woke every time he turned onto his stomach, aching and groggy. He’s not happy about being woken before his alarm. Unless he slept through his alarm? He sits up and gropes for his phone.

“You’re, umm, I think you’re leaking?” says Martin, gesturing towards Jon’s front. Jon blinks at him for a moment, then looks down. Sure enough, his t-shirt has two wet circles on it, spreading out from over his nipples. 

“Oh.” 

“Is it, uh—?”

“I—I think so.” Jon pats at one of the wet spots, feels his chest aching beneath it. He looks at Martin, who’s frowning, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. 

“Should we check?” he asks. It’s his calming tone, and something in Jon wants to snap that he’s not a confused victim, he knows exactly what’s happening to him and he doesn’t need to be condescended to. He bites his tongue; that isn't a useful response.

“Yes, all right,” he says instead. Ideally he’d prefer to just get dressed and go to work and pretend this isn’t happening, but he’s aware how silly that reflex is. 

“You’ll need to take your t-shirt off,” Martin says, patiently. 

“Right, I—right.” Apprehension roils in Jon’s stomach as he pulls the shirt off over his head. His chest looks...engorged, the skin taut and his nipples standing out dark and swollen. How the hell did he not notice this happening sooner? 

“Can I—?” Martin stretches one hand towards Jon’s chest, then pauses for his response. Jon nods tightly, and holds his breath as Martin’s fingers pinch carefully around his areola. Instantly, a drop of white liquid beads. Martin swipes it up and pops his thumb into his mouth before Jon can stop him. 

“Well,” he says, “It’s milk.” 

Jon releases his breath explosively. It is, of course it is, it couldn’t have been anything else and yet having it confirmed sends his stomach plummeting.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. Well.”

“Jon, I—” Martin looks distraught, as if this was somehow his fault. “I’m sorry, I never should have let you keep drinking it, after we found out.”

“As if you forced me,” Jon huffs. “It’s—it’s fine. We’ll just...deal with it. Not the end of the world.”

“Are you all right?” Martin’s voice is cautious again, and Jon fights down the protest that rises in his throat, that he doesn’t need to be _coddled._ He’s not going to take this out on Martin.

“I’m fine,” he says, and even he can hear the strained note in his voice. “I’m just...going to get ready for work.” He swings his legs out of the bed, ignoring Martin’s look of concern.

“You need to take care of your milk, Jon,” Martin says. “Otherwise you’ll keep leaking all day.” 

“Well, yes, I can—I can do that in the shower.” 

Martin nods slowly. “If that’s what you’re most comfortable with.”

Jon heads for the bathroom, carefully not thinking about any alternatives that Martin’s words might suggest. He feels ridiculous, under the shower spray, pinching and tugging at the soft, aching flesh of his chest. Except then the milk starts to flow and the relief is almost unbearable, and Jon hears a guttural groan escape him. His knees go weak and he sinks to the tiled floor, hunched over and panting as he empties first one side, then the other. By the time he runs dry, he’s trembling, his nerves singing and his cock standing up between his legs. Jon ignores it, pulls himself to his feet, and reaches for the shampoo. 

Martin is careful after he gets out of the shower, asking if everything went all right. He’s careful on the way to the Institute, and careful when he leaves Jon at his office to go and meet with Elias, and careful when he knocks on Jon’s door at lunchtime. If there’s one thing Jon can’t stand it’s people being _careful_ of him, no matter how well they mean. He forces the annoyance down, though, reminds himself that Martin only wants to help. He has little appetite, but he gets soup in the canteen and forces himself to eat at least some of it, while Martin talks about the practicalities of his condition.

“It’s only me and occasional guests using the milking room here,” he says, “If you want to try it I can make sure you have privacy. Not that you have to, if you’re not comfortable. But if you _do,_ I can be there with you, if you want. And—you have the FAQ, right? I can send you a copy if you don’t, a lot of people have said it’s really helpful for getting started.”

“I have the FAQ.” 

“Right. Good. Are you, uh, are you going to tell Elias, or—or anyone? I mean silver lining, you should get some paid leave.”

“It’s none of Elias’ business,” Jon says flatly. The thought of Elias looking him up and down the way he does with Martin, assessing, _possessive,_ makes his skin crawl. 

“Sure,” says Martin. “I only meant—”

“This may not be permanent,” Jon says. “I don’t want to—to cause a fuss until we’re sure.” 

“Sure…” Martin sounds hesitant. He sets his fork down and reaches across the table for Jon’s hand. “Either way, it’ll be okay. I promise.” Jon smiles, weakly. 

“Thank you, Martin.” 

“Of course. Umm...would you mind, helping me get—set up, after lunch? I wouldn’t ask, considering, but Sasha’s out today. I understand if you’d prefer not at the moment, though.” 

“No, I—of course I don’t mind.” Particularly since the other alternative is for Martin to ask Elias. 

A while later he has Martin settled in the curved, vibrating saddle, sucking on a phallus-shaped gag while the pump takes his milk in thick gushes. Martin’s eyes are glazed, and low, breathy moos rumble around the gag on every exhale. He rocks, his body shuddering every so often through the throes of climax, as Jon keeps watch over him. He strokes the skin of Martin’s shoulder, his back, its texture velvety soft. He pets Martin’s hair, Martin’s head pushing heavy into his palm, his gaze not quite focusing on Jon. 

Martin has described the experience to him as a total loss of inhibition, all sense of shame or even of _self_ overwhelmed by pleasure. And not just physical arousal, he’s explained; there’s a deep, primal satisfaction to giving your milk, to being _useful._

He’s desperately appealing like this. Every animal urge in Jon’s brain wants to own him, to take care of him: _mine, mine, mine._ It’s nonsense, of course, but the fact that Martin’s allowed Jon to care for him in so many small ways over the past months is unbearably precious. And most of all that he trusts Jon to care for him like this, when he’s so vulnerable. 

Jon imagines how it would feel, to lose control like that, to know nothing but the instinctual drive for fulfillment. The idea scares him. If his condition does turn out to be permanent—if it _worsens_ —he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t know if he can ever let himself be so helpless, so dependent on others’ care. 

He spends the rest of the day preoccupied, unable to get any work done. By six o’clock he’s made a decision, and when Martin pops his head around the door, Jon tentatively lays it out for him. 

“I need to test whether the effects are permanent. Without the ear tag, it’s possible the changes require ongoing exposure. In which case, if I _stop_ my...exposure, the effects could dissipate.” 

"Oh, right,” Martin says. Jon scrambles to explain. 

“It’s nothing to do with—with _you_ , I would never want you to think that—” Martin waves away the apology before he can make it. 

“I said before, didn’t I? I wouldn’t be insulted. Just means you’ll have to bring your own milk for tea.” A worried line creases his brow. “If you...still want to come over to mine, that is?”

“Oh—oh of course!” Jon blurts. “I didn’t envision anything b-between _us_ changing. If you don’t?” 

“No! No, that’s—good. Great! I, uh, I have a pump at home I can use before bed if I need it, anyway. No problem!” 

They get takeaway from the Thai place up the road from Martin’s flat, and watch a documentary about penguins. Jon doesn’t pay much attention to it, distracted by the fullness that’s been growing in his chest the past few hours. He tries to rub discreetly at it, to relieve some of the ache, but eventually he has to admit defeat. 

“I, umm, I need to go to the bathroom and—take care of this.” He gestures at his chest. Martin nods, careful again, and sits up. 

“Do you...want a pump?” 

“No, no, thank you, I—I think I’m more...comfortable doing it myself. I could use a quick shower, anyway.” 

By the time he emerges from the bathroom in a t-shirt and pajama pants, Martin’s getting ready for bed as well. Jon feels overstimulated and drained, his body buzzing with unwanted arousal. 

“Everything go okay?” Martin asks. He sounds careful again, and Jon wants to ask him to _please_ not be, but he knows Martin is just worried about him. This is new territory for both of them. 

“Fine,” he says, “I’m just tired.”

“You’ll feel miles better after a good night’s sleep.”

In bed, Jon wants to get close to Martin, sink into the steady comfort of his presence. But his skin still feels electrified and he’s all too aware of his chest, and the thought of being touched when he’s like this is overwhelming. He feels like he might break down or break apart. Instead, he curls in on himself, and reaches his hand out to grasp for Martin’s. Martin takes it, presses their palms together.

“Night, Jon,” he says quietly. Jon feels something hitch behind his ribs, and he’d tell Martin how much this means if he didn’t think he’d just cry instead. 

“Night,” he manages to whisper. He falls asleep with Martin’s hand clasped in his. 

Things carry on. Jon maintains as much normalcy as he can at work—his physical changes aren’t pronounced enough to be obvious, and he’s getting by with pumping mornings and evenings in the shower. He makes sure to always have a jumper or a jacket on hand, in case of spotting, but otherwise it’s fine. He examines himself daily in the bathroom mirror, looking for any changes; his chest doesn’t seem to be growing any further, but it certainly isn’t shrinking. The volume he’s producing seems to be increasing as well, and it’s taking him longer and longer to express by hand. Any hope he had that the effects would reverse are rapidly disappearing. 

He feels like a stranger in his own skin, and with that comes a deep drive to hide from his body. Except he can’t even do that, and after each milking he’s aching with arousal, desperate for Martin to touch him, and at the same time averse to any contact. Martin is understanding, endlessly patient, doesn’t press Jon for sex in the same way he doesn’t push him to use the milking room or attend a support group meeting. But Jon knows this isn’t fair to Martin, and for his part he misses the easy intimacy they had before. He still wants that, wants _them,_ it’s just...taking a while to adjust. 

It’s not sustainable, of course. One afternoon while Martin’s off-site, Jon gets the text he should have known was coming:

_we need to have a talk. tonight?_

His stomach drops like a stone. This was inevitable, really. Martin’s been patient with him—more than patient—but he deserves better than Jon’s given him the past month, moody and self-absorbed and unable to offer any real intimacy. Jon’s tempted to text back and tell Martin it’s okay, he gets it, no need for them to drag it out. But he owes Martin to sit down face to face and listen to him, regardless of how much it hurts. He texts back:

_Okay._

That evening they go together to Martin’s flat, which is for the best. Jon wouldn’t want Martin to have to go home alone after this. On the way there, Martin talks about work while Jon nods and makes occasional sounds of acknowledgment, though he’s not really following the words. His stomach is a pit. Finally, they get inside and Martin turns to him. He looks nervous.

“Right,” he says. “Do you want something to eat first, or do you want to talk?”

“We should talk.”

“Right. Okay. Let’s sit down, then.” He goes to sit on the sofa and Jon follows him, bracing himself for what’s to come. Martin lets out a long breath. 

“Okay. Jon, you know I—care a lot about you. What we have, it’s the best thing that’s happened to me in—well, probably ever, if I’m honest. And I know you’ve been going through a lot. _Believe_ me, I know. If you need..time, space, that’s fine, really! But I want you to know that if—if _this_ isn’t what you want anymore, I’ll still be here for you, as your friend. And, umm, that’s it, I suppose?”

Jon stares at him for several long moments, trying to process what Martin’s just said. He’s silent long enough that Martin’s brow furrows, and he knows he needs to say _something._

“I—why would I not want this anymore?”

“Well,” Martin squirms anxiously. “You have been a bit...distant, lately—which is understandable, I know it’s a lot—but we haven’t...y’know, and I wasn’t sure, umm. Now that you’re not...drinking my milk anymore, if you’re...maybe not as interested in—in carrying this on?” 

“Oh…” Jon feels like he’s been punched in the gut, his head reeling. Martin thinks that he’s not _interested_ in him without the milk? Yes, of course that’s been a part of their relationship—a deeply intimate and erotic part—but the idea that Martin would think that’s the only reason Jon wants him is thoroughly distressing. 

“I’m sorry, Martin, I never intended to make you feel—neglected. My, uh, my interest in sex is unpredictable at the best of times, and lately, with everything it’s been… Well, it’s been difficult.”

“I don’t mind that at all!” Martin says, aghast. “The sex is—well, I enjoy it, of course, but it’s far from being the end of the world if we don’t. Honestly, if you said you never wanted to again, I’d be absolutely fine. As long as you still want the—the rest of it? Of us?” 

“Of course I—Martin, of course.” Jon feels at once as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and on the brink of tears. “I’m so sorry if I made you think that. I want _you,_ all of you, I love you. God, I was scared I’d driven you away—”

“Oh.” Martin says softly, and Jon realizes what he’s just said. It isn’t something he’s said before, but—he realizes just as quickly—he meant it. Absolutely and completely. Martin’s expression is awestruck, and Jon feels his eyes growing wet, his heart beating fast. 

“I love you too,” says Martin, and Jon almost forgets how to breathe. He isn’t sure how he gets across the sofa, but he’s got Martin in his arms, warm and solid and _his,_ and that’s the only thing that matters right now. 

“I’m sorry,” he says into the crook of Martin’s neck, unshed tears threatening to choke him, “I'm just...I'm afraid, Martin.”

“I know,” Martin tells him, “I know. But you’re still you, Jon. This is still your body. It’s just a bit different now, and it’s going to take you time to get used to it. I’ll be here with you, I promise. I’ll take care of you.” 

And that, it seems, is the last straw, as an ugly sob shudders it’s way out of Jon’s body and the tears start to flow. Martin holds him through it, strokes his hair and murmurs comforting nonsense. Jon cries, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to, all the stress and fear and uncertainty of the past weeks pouring out of him in great gouts. His sobs grow weaker and eventually die away to nothing, leaving Jon sniffling and out of breath. He’d be embarrassed about his outburst, but it’s impossible with Martin still holding him, close and careful, like something precious. After a while, Martin says: 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” 

And honestly, that sounds like the best thing in the world right now. 

Martin makes the tea while Jon goes to the bathroom and splashes water on his face; his eyes are still red, but at least he looks a bit more presentable. He notes with a sort of wry acceptance the two damp spots in the front of his shirt. He sees Martin take note of them when he comes back out, as well, but he doesn’t say anything, just hands Jon a steaming mug. They drink their tea quietly, shoulders pressed together; it’s comfortable, easy, like it’s always been. 

Eventually, Jon rouses himself, because his chest is sore and heavy and he can feel the front of his shirt starting to cling. His heart is beating fast again, and he can hardly believe what he’s about to ask, but now that he’s poured so much of himself out, maybe a little more vulnerability isn’t such a terrible thing.

“It’s, ah, probably time to take care of this,” he says, gesturing at himself. Martin nods. 

“Sure,” he says. “Do you want me to heat some food up for you while you’re in the shower? There’s leftover curry.”

“I was actually thinking...maybe you could help me? If you wouldn’t mind,” he adds at the look of surprise on Martin’s face. 

“No, no of course not! I’d be happy to. I—I can fetch the pump, if you like? Or…” He hesitates, and the look he gives Jon makes his face go hot.

“Or what?”

“I could, umm, take care of it for you?”

“You mean…?” Jon’s breath catches in his throat. Martin gives him a shy smile. 

“You’ve done it for me so many times,” he says. “It’d be interesting to see what it’s like, from the other side. And it’s not as if I have to worry about side effects.”

Jon considers, still feeling a little breathless. It’s...less impersonal a prospect than the pump, and he trusts Martin. More than anything. 

“I—all right,” says Jon, his heart hammering. “Yes, all right.” 

In the bedroom, Martin strips down and gets into sleepwear, a worn t-shirt and soft shorts. Jon shucks his trousers off, and then hesitantly starts unbuttoning his shirt. As he does, Martin comes in close to him, cups a hand to the back of his neck. 

“I know you’re nervous, but I promise, I’m going to look after you, all right? Like you always look after me.”

“I—I know you will,” Jon tells him, and he does. He slips the shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor, leaving his chest bare. “Should I...what’s the best position for this?”

“Just lie down.”

Jon does, flat on his back; his chest is swollen and heavy _._ The air chills his wet nipples, making them stiffen. Martin straddles his hips, his own chest hidden beneath his t-shirt, though the abundant curves of his breasts are visible. Martin’s hands cup around Jon’s chest, gently squeezing the flesh in his palms; Jon’s small teats barely make a handful for him, and he gasps as Martin’s thumbs rub over his nipples. He’s so full, _aching,_ he needs this. Needs Martin to stop teasing him and do whatever he’s going to do, before he loses his nerve. His heart is pounding behind his ribs. 

“Please, Martin,” he breathes, and Martin smiles. 

“Love you.”

His head ducks and his tongue swipes wet across Jon’s left nipple. Jon moans. Then Martin’s lips close around him, suck hard while Martin’s fingers stroke his flesh, and it’s utter, heavenly bliss as his milk lets down. He’s felt a shadow of this sensation, pumping himself in the shower, but it pales compared to the bliss of being _sucked._

Pleasure sweeps over him in slow, tingling waves, turning his limbs to jelly and his thoughts into hazy euphoria. All that matters is the feeling of Martin’s mouth on him, drawing and swallowing as Jon’s milk flows. It feels so good, better than anything ever has before, and Jon never wants it to end. He rolls his hips mindlessly against Martin’s, vaguely aware that his cock is hard and aching, though the sensation barely registers against the swells of overwhelming pleasure rolling through his body from where Martin is sucking him. 

When Martin releases his nipple Jon whines with displeasure, unable to form the words to complain, trying to push his chest up for attention. 

“Shhh,” he hears Martin say, fondly, “You’re dry on this side. Let’s take care of the other, okay?”

And oh, then Martin’s hot, wet mouth latches onto his aching right teat, and ecstasy sweeps over him again. He sinks into the mattress, boneless, his body thrumming with satisfaction, while Martin takes everything that he needs to give _._

He comes back to himself slowly, registering the warm weight of Martin’s arms around him, Martin’s chest against his back. Jon shifts in his arms as the world comes into focus. 

“All right?” Martin asks him gently. 

Jon considers. He feels drained, but in a good way, entirely relaxed and contented. His nipples are tender, which is only to be expected, but there’s less soreness than after his own clumsy efforts. There’s a sticky patch in the front of his boxers from where he must have ejaculated at some point during the process. 

“Yes,” he says, “Fine, I think. How long…?”

“About half an hour.” Martin chuckles as Jon lets out a surprised huff. “I know, it can be hard to gauge time when you’re in that state. Are you hungry, or do you want to sleep?”

“Sleep,” Jon mutters. He can’t imagine moving from the warm cocoon of Martin’s arms in the foreseeable future. His eyelids are already starting to droop again, and he can only grumble a complaint as Martin disengages for a moment to pull the duvet over them both. 

“Love you,” he manages to say, and then Martin’s arms curl around him again, and everything is right with the world. 

The next morning, Jon wakes feeling refreshed, and better than he has in weeks. Martin’s already in the kitchen, teabags steeping in their usual mugs. Jon reaches past the carton of oat milk on the counter for the half full glass bottle, and sees Martin raise an eyebrow. Jon shrugs.

“If nothing else, Jared is...thorough,” he says. “This isn’t going away, there’s no point clinging to false hope. And besides...yours just tastes better.” 

Martin beams. 

Later, in his office, Jon signs into the kine forum. He switches off the ADMIN flag next to his username, and clicks into a pinned thread:

**_New to all this? Start Here!_ **

It doesn’t happen all at once, but gradually, Jon starts to feel more himself again. Starts to grow accustomed to his body’s changes. It helps to think of it as simply some new imperatives to add to the old list. Reading the experiences of the other kine on the forum helps—a remarkable amount, in fact. Jon doesn’t feel comfortable enough to post, yet, but it’s a start. He’s sure that once he does, the others will pick up on the fact quite quickly, but...well, that is what it is. It’s not something to be ashamed of. 

(He thinks of Martin, his kindness and unwavering support for all the kine, the confidence and strength he’s found through his experiences; this clever, gorgeous man that Jon loves. No, not something to be ashamed of at all.)

Finally, one evening, he goes with Martin to the milking room. They wait until after seven o'clock, when everyone should be gone home, in order to get some privacy. Somehow, though, they find themselves running into Elias in the corridor right at their destination. 

“Ah, Jon, Martin, working late?” he asks, then, without waiting for a response: “Are you heading in? Martin, I thought you had a milking just after lunch today. If you’re in need again so soon that _is_ an interesting development—one we should discuss perhaps?”

“Actually it’s for me,” Jon tells him flatly. Elias looks at him, and a smile that pretends to be sympathetic but looks rather more satisfied spreads across his face. 

“I see,” he says. “My, my. No ear tag—so I can assume this is a result of the milk-based transmission you’re so fond of warning me about?”

“Was there something you needed, Elias?” Martin asks tersely. 

“Not at all, just a happy coincidence. We should talk further about your situation though, Jon—there are so few cases like yours, I think we owe it to ourselves to understand them thoroughly, don’t you?” His eyes rake unashamedly over Jon from head to toe. “Very interesting—you could almost pass for fully human.” 

“Well, you know, phenotypes,” Martin snaps, taking hold of Jon’s arm possessively. “See you later, Elias.”

Elias takes his cue to leave, and Martin unlocks the milking room door, guiding Jon inside. 

“You can let go now,” Jon tells him, and Martin releases his arm, his face coloring a little. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I just—I didn’t like how he was talking to you.” 

“Now you know how I feel,” Jon snorts. “I honestly don’t know how you can trust him with...all this.” He waves his hand at the equipment: the pump, the saddle, the neatly laid out gags and cuffs. He knows there’s a bitter note in his voice as he says it, and Martin must hear it too; he grasps hold of both Jon’s shoulders, more gently this time, and holds his gaze carefully.

“I trust Elias to take care of me during milking, because it’s in his best interests. But I trust _you_ to take care of all of me. Okay?” 

Jon nods, a warm feeling spreading through his chest, and when Martin kisses him he lets his lips part, kisses back slow and tender. When they part, he looks around a bit nervously; he’s been in this room dozens of times, but never to use it himself. Martin smiles, and rests a comforting hand on his hip. 

“Let’s start small, yeah? Just the pump. Save the fancy stuff for some other time?”

Jon strips to the waist while Martin untangles the cords of the pump, grumbling about how they get like this, _worse than headphones, I swear_. His chest aches with the weight of his milk, and he’s not sure if the feeling coiling in his belly is anxiety or anticipation. He sits down in the armchair, and tries not to tense up as Martin approaches with the cups in hand. 

“Okay?” he asks, and Jon nods. Martin lifts the cup to one swollen nipple, and Jon gasps as the gentle suction tugs pleasurably on it. Martin applies the other, and Jon moans as the first droplets of milk start to spatter the clear plastic. 

“You’re doing so well,” Martin tells him, stroking his hair. “Should I turn it up?” 

“Please…” Jon gasps, and then groans deep in his throat as the sucking pressure increases, as the dam gives way and his milk starts to spill, the sensation tugging at some deep sense of _rightness_ inside him. His hands curl tight into the arms of the chair. Martin comes to perch on the arm beside him, and Jon turns his face into the swell of Martin’s chest, mouthing at the fabric of his shirt, moaning and arching his back into the delicious suction. 

Martin unbuttons his shirt and cups the back of Jon’s head in his palm, pressing it against the warm expanse of his breast. Jon groans, mouthing at the soft flesh, blinding seeking a nipple. He finds it, and sucks, and hears Martin exhale softly above him. 

“Jon…” Martin breathes. Jon moans against him, presses closer to Martin’s body, sucking lazily as bliss washes over him, safe and warm and loved in Martin’s arms.

He’s okay, everything’s okay, because Martin’s going to take care of him. They’re going to take care of each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @cuttoothed.


End file.
